Chapter 1 - One Man's Tale -

1

 

One Man’s Tale

 

 

 

I lie stretched out in my favorite recliner contemplating these very thoughts. An early evening sun winks through our transom windows, while in the distant background muffled sounds from my neighbor’s lawnmower remind me of similar summer settings back in my youth.

In the next room, my wife brings life to the kitchen as she prepares for dinner. Our three children, by some small miracle, are all home at the same time. It’s not often that our son of twenty years and our sixteen- and eighteen-year-old daughters are all together. I look forward to a full family dinner later that evening.

I’m trying to fight off a persistent nap, but after forty-eight years on this planet, the ole body develops a mind of its own. The television suddenly carries a familiar tune, bringing a half-asleep grin to my face. A rerun of Gunsmoke, one of my late grandfathers’ favorite shows, is gracing my screen. I need not open my eyes, for the music itself carries me back to younger years when I lay in bed at my grandparent’s house the night before our annual trout fishing and camping trip to the Flag River. It’s funny how a melody can transport a person’s mind to a different place and time. In a matter of seconds, my mind recreates a comforting scene from back in my youth.

“Sweet dreams,” my grandmother said, as she tucked me into bed before our trip. I rested within a halo of dim light and breathed in the smells of my Italian grandparents’ house, which was a distinctive combination of homemade pasta sauce and fresh apple pie, with an overtone of mothballs of all things. The penetrating sounds of Gunsmoke galloped from Gramps’ living room television and echoed down the hallway and into my room. My tummy digested a late night snack of crunchy Bugles, a can of Dr. Pepper, and a handful of M&M’s I had snatched from Grandma’s hallway candy dish.

The night before our fishing trip was a big one for me. It ranked right up there with the night before my birthday and the night before Christmas. I gladly fell asleep with visions of stream trout dancing through my head.

The next morning I was greeted to a full box of sugary Corn Pops, which was a treat because we rarely had “sugar” cereal at my parent’s house. Grandma’s old tin cereal bowls somehow made the milk colder and the Corn Pops tastier. I dug into the bowl of goodies like there was no tomorrow, while Gramps and Grandma finished packing for our two day fishing trip.

Even now as an adult those times are still special, for why else would I remember such detail from nearly forty years ago? Those early trout fishing trips led to many others, as one trip after another plays through my mind. There are more with my grandpa, dad, uncle, and even my wife. Many trips were shared with friends, and a bunch more were shared with my brothers, son, and nephew.

The highlight reel of those fishing adventures causes me to reflect on the present day. With eyes closed, the Flag River nearly flows through my living room. With eyes open, it seems a million miles away. My eyes stay shut for now.

It still amuses me that I live so unexpectedly far from where I was raised. My mind sifts through the comforting times in my original home. My first twenty-four years were spent in the small railroad town of Proctor, Minnesota, which snuggles beside Duluth and overlooks Lake Superior. Family and friends encircled me. I soaked up the northland’s boundless outdoors with an insatiable desire. I not only enjoyed the land through outdoor activities, but as a budding geologist, I enjoyed studying it to the point of getting a college degree. Ironically, while my passionate interest in exploring the earth drew me closer to my homeland, it ultimately led me away from where I was attached. Such was my fate, I guess.

A career path in geology led me to Lafayette, Louisiana, and twenty-four years of living in Cajun country. My wife and I started a new branch of the family tree deep in the South. We met a new batch of friends, and I was exposed to the outdoors, southern style. I was introduced to a new section of earth to study, much to my delight. Now, the notion to leave this area seems absurd, as it has become a home away from home. What cards will my Maker deal this time?

I have no regrets about relocating, just contemplations.

My wife and I married up North, but our children were born and raised down South. The contrast between the two areas is as stark as a fleck of black pepper among grains of salt.

There’s the cold punch of a blizzard versus the hot, humid blow of a hurricane. Thirty below with dry air is as unpleasant as 100 above with moist air. One person goes ice fishing while another goes crabbing. Accordions push a lively polka while a fiddle and squeezebox play for Cajun dancers. Meat and potatoes rule the North but spicy Cajun seafood is king down South. A link of bratwurst welcomes over a link of boudin. In the North, animals eat crayfish; in the South, people eat crawfish. Ten thousand freshwater lakes relate to the vastness of the salty Gulf. Where moose stand in peat bogs, alligators swim in cypress swamps. A northern red maple dressed in brilliant autumn colors compares to the haunting beauty of a southern live oak draped in Spanish moss. Someone says “Eh?” while another says “Who Dat?” And in fun, Oivo and Toivo laughers meet their match with Boudreaux and Thibodeaux jokes.

Sometimes the special features of an area hit home during moments of peace and tranquility, tattooing a scene in one’s mind.

Such is the case when the outdoors calls, and a man sets out alone. His canoe skims across a clear lake in search of walleyes. One billion-year-old rocks cradle the calm body of water. The haunting yodel of a loon bounces off rimming trees and fills his ears. Evergreen tops serrate the northland’s skyline. A warm feeling wells inside the man as cool air licks his cheeks. He stops his stroke. He glides and wonders.

The same man in a pirogue skims across the marsh in search of redfish. Ten thousand-year-old sediments gently rock the water above. The prehistoric figure of a brown pelican floats overhead and sends an eerie chill through his body. Waves of marsh grasses march southward and blend into the Gulf’s horizon. A cool feeling grows inside the man as warm air greets his cheeks. He stops his stroke. He glides and wonders.

Fortunate is the person who not only spins a tale, but also lives the tale that is spun. I am that fortunate person.

While each land is distinctive, there is a common tie between the peoples as families and friends share their lives together along many fronts, forming the strongest of bonds. They celebrate their heritage and culture through countless festivals, parties, and reunions. My experience with people has taught me that if location-based differences are melted away, we are all quite the same.

Nature also draws people together; its beauty calls to the human soul. Its preservation often acts as glue that binds humans as one. Most folks realize that their homegrown surroundings often define them, as the landscape shapes their activities and molds their lifestyle.

All worthwhile traditions need a patient dose of passing time. I’m a witness to the powerful effects of a long-standing family tradition, especially one that occurs outdoors. While traditions vary from area to area, they all carry the same purpose and are driven by the same desire.

The combination of family, nature, and tradition can leave a deep imprint within a person, regardless of your original location or final destination. It may seem hidden at times, but it’s still inside you. It’s your choice to bring it to life.

My reflections provide a deep appreciation for my life’s path. However, my trout fishing trips remain prominent in my mind. Why is this? Perhaps it’s because fishing a backwoods stream appeals to a person’s spirituality in the most basic sense. There aren’t any cell phones, video games, or mind-poisoning media. Information is gleaned by examining your surroundings instead of using Google. Decisions are based on common sense and experience versus pressing a button for direction. You depend on your instincts and teamwork with your partners to best a rugged wilderness. Clear air and clear thoughts rule the hours. I need this in my life. The next generation needs it even more.

Interestingly, during our annual family trips up North, we still continue our fishing ways. Among all our trips, one from six years ago stands out. Perhaps it was because I shared it with my younger brother and our sons, where a gorgeous day was amplified by non-stop brook trout action. Perhaps it was because the passing of our family’s traditions took a foothold that day. Maybe it was special because our families and our parents greeted us at day’s end; as it turned out, cancer claimed my mother’s life the following year. That one excursion not only embodied a typical day on the stream, but it was a microcosm of our journey in life as we experienced triumphs, struggles, disappointment, mentoring, peace, and happiness.

That trip’s significance may provide the answers I’m searching for. I want to continue contemplating, but I can only battle the Sandman for so long. Besides, sometimes puzzles are best constructed after a state of rest. With that, I finally plunge into an inviting nap, where warm memories can come alive.

Reviews

[MAD ENGLISHMAN]

Little things like " a fleck of black pepper among grains of salt." wonderful description and says it all, very visual.
I like your writing style. I'll read more as I get spare moments.
Liking it all so far.

[Tony Dincau]

Thanks much!